The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
by Seaouryou
Summary: Cartman is in a predicament. Does he brag about getting a little somethin' somethin', or conceal it because she's a dirty hippie? And why isn't his cocaine ring turning a profit? Most importantly, who keeps shrinking his pants? xover, crack, CartmanWendy
1. Friday Night

I dedicate this one to Koko, Jean, Clairebear, kylestanfan, LVK-DeadSavior, InvaderWaffles, Azu-Luna, Ichi, and Emmie. Because they encourage my wanton ficcing. For anyone who's following _Martyrdom: It's Not For Everyone_, don't worry. I've never abandoned a fic.

Except for that one time.

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**o1. Friday Night**

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Cartman was disgusted with himself.

It was a new and unsavory feeling. Cartman had never been disgusted with himself, no matter what disgusting things he did. But this was the embodiment of all the vile, terrible, drum-beating, pot-smoking, tie-dying, mud-dancing, smelly things in the world.

"More than a decade I've devoted to persecuting hippies... why did I end up with one in the back seat of my car?!" His mother's car, actually, which he "borrowed."

Wendy—who'd been leaning over the front seat, switching channels on the radio, being utterly mesmerized by every station she found, including the traffic report (six car pile up in front of the old folk's home)—leaned back and laughed.

"Because I'm a girl," she said, running a hand through her hair. "And I'm high, and I'm horny. And there are two good things about hippies you've forgotten."

"What?" Cartman demanded, offended that she was insulting his specialty.

"Free lovin'." She smirked. "And no bra."

"... Your legs and pits are probably all hairy."

Wendy just giggled. "Want to find out?"

So popular opinion was that Cartman wasn't human. Didn't mean he wasn't a sixteen year old boy.

-

"I'm so emo my tears are _BLACK!_"

"Your mascara is running."

"Oh," Stan said, stepping closer to the mirror and examining his face more closely. "So it is."

Kyle decided a change of subject was in order. "Stan," he said, "do you remember all the times I've gone down to Tweek Bros. Coffee to listen to you read your poetry because you chased the rest of the audience away?"

"Sure."

"And do you remember all the times you've dragged me into Hot Topic against my will?"

"Of course."

"So you must also remember when you coerced me into going to a Skinny Puppy concert, then coerced me into making out with you in front of Henrietta to win her back—which still doesn't make any sense, by the way."

"I had to prove I was hardcore!"

"Emos aren't hardcore, Stan. It's more like a chewy nougat center."

Stan pouted and crossed his arms. "What's your point?"

"My point is I've done a helluva lot of stuff I didn't want to do for you, so it's time your repaid me. Come to my rehearsal tomorrow."

"But that guy's there," Stan whined. "You know. The redhead who dyes his hair. You know the one I mean. The guy with the shoes. God, what _is_ his name?"

"He's a goth, Stan. I mean, it annoys me, but your girlfriend is one, too, so what's the problem?"

"He used to date Henrietta," Stan sulked.

"So? Stan, c'mon. You owe me."

"Fine," Stan grumbled. "But I won't enjoy myself."

"Same as usual," Kyle said.

-

Like many a Friday night, Kenny was holed up in his room, IMing Clyde.

The foundation of their friendship was their inability to get any from girls, because of Clyde's flab and Kenny's personality. They'd set up a two-person support group, shared porn, and jerked off together a few times. (Kenny was pretty sure that wasn't gay.)

**lulzinstantmessaging:** so when is ur bday

**thisisascreenname:** march 22

**thisisascreenname:** why, you going to jump out of a cake?

**lulzinstantmessaging:** lol yeah im going 2 shake it

**thisisascreenname:** well careful you don't break it

**lulzinstantmessaging:** ha u just cant take it

**thisisascreenname:** I can fake it

**lulzinstantmessaging:** we shoulf stop b4 this gets out of hand

**thisisascreenname:** you just couldn't think of anything else that rhymes

**lulzinstantmessaging:** shutup

**thisisascreenname:** hold on, cartman's iming me

A new window had popped up on Kenny's screen. It read:

**aimisgay: **Get your poor ass over here first thing tomorrow. And bring condoms.


	2. Saturday Morning

I'm planning on having everything get resolved in less than a week, story-time.

Also, did I mention there would be crack? The drug kind AND the fandom kind. Why limit ourselves to one?

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**o2. Saturday Morning**

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"Why do I always have to provide the condoms?" Kenny whined.

"Because it's not like you're going to be using them for anything else," Cartman said, measuring out coke.

"Oh, and _you_ are?" Kenny asked snidely. He expected an explosive, offensive retort from Cartman, and was taken aback when Cartman just grinned smugly while he poured the cocaine into the condoms.

Kenny's jaw dropped.

"No. Fucking. Way."

"Yes way. Fucking."

"Who was it?" Kenny demanded immediately. "It was a hooker, right? It had to be."

Cartman glared. Having sex with a hippie was making him feel so conflicted. Did he follow his instinct to brag about getting laid, or conceal the fact because of the shame of doing it with a flower child?

Kenny was scrutinizing him. "You're bullshitting me. You are, right? There's no way you scored. Not before _me_."

And that was why he couldn't have it both ways, gloating about getting some _while_ not revealing who the some was. If he didn't give them a name, none of his peers would believe him for a second. It was inconceivable that Cartman, embodiment of all things that repulsed women, could have had sex before_ they_ did.

Cartman shoved the condoms at Kenny and scowled. "Shut up and swallow these, you poor piece of crap, and you better get them to Shelbyville by tomorrow."

Kenny looked at them distastefully. "Can I at least have some water to wash them down?"

"I'm not wasting good water on you."

-

"Don't argue with me, young man."

"But Mom, I have rehearsal today."

"It's _Saturday_." Sheila Broflovski placed her hands on her hips. "According to _Meddling Mothers Monthly_'s latest article, "Teenagers Use Schoolwork As A Cover When They Want To Sneak Around Behind Their Parents' Back", teenagers use schoolwork as a cover when they want to sneak around behind their parents' back!"

"I'm not _sneaking around_," Kyle said, annoyed.

"No, you're not. Because you're taking your brother to Sea World so he can get his next Jewbilee badge."

"Mom, I _can't!_ Our stage manager/director is _insane_. Every week he changes the play we're doing! We open _Friday_ and he just turned it into a dance number!"

"You promised to drive Ike around as a condition to your father and I buying you that nice, new car!" Actually, an ugly, used car. "If you don't want to stick to your end of the bargain, you can just hand over the keys right now."

"Aarrrrrgh. Fine. _Ike_ get your ass out here!" he hollered upstairs to his younger brother, who was still arranging his scarf in the bathroom mirror. Ike galloped out to the front yard, where Kyle was already unlocking the car.

"Thanks," he offered, noting his brother's foul mood.

"I'm taking you. _After_ drama."

"Nooo!" Ike cried, anguish.

"Don't be a pain in the ass," Kyle snapped. "You won't be bored the whole time. Stan'll be there; he can keep you company."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Ike wailed, falling to his knees and bawling at the sky, arms outstretched, as if asking why his God had forsaken him.

-

Craig had vision.

According to him. According to Kyle, Craig had some sort of mental defect.

The play had started out as Romeo and Juliet. Craig had decided he was a real director, and real directors strove for _authenticity_, so he used real sabers for the battle between Romeo and Mercutio. Romeo (that goth kid, whatever his name is) accidentally stabbed Mercutio (Tweek) in the arm during practice. Tweek ended up in the hospital, and Craig decided the pick a different play, which ended up being Frankenstein.

First Craig wanted to stay faithful to the novel, which cut out Igor, the only character anyone wanted to play. Then he decided it should be 21st Century Frankenstein, because they blew the costume budget on the sabers. Then he decided it should be 21st Century Frankenstein! The Musical. And now, with the play opening in just six days, it had become Monster Mash: The Show-Stopping Specular Spectacle.

And to get his actors, whom he'd referred to as "a group of fatty fatty fat fats", into shape for the final act, Craig had called a mandatory rehearsal at the golf course at nine AM sharp. When Kyle arrived, Craig was no where in sight. He chatted with Mercy and Lexi about where Craig could be, until Craig made his surprise entrance. Which brought on Kyle's epiphany that Craig must not be all there mentally.

Because Kyle and the rest of the actors were running laps around the golf course as fast as they could. Because Craig was chasing them in a golf cart. And in an effort to be motivational, he was chanting a song at them through a megaphone to the tune of "Hey Diddle Diddle":

"Hey jiggle jiggle,

"That fat in the middle,

"A cow's slimmer than you,

"The little kids jeer when they see your flab,

"And the wife rather fuck a spoon."

A great songwriter Craig was not.

-

"Oh _man_." Kenny bit his fist and moaned his thanks to God.

"I _told_ you. Didn't I tell you?"

Kenny had been on his way from Cartman's to the bus stop when Clyde had come running up, out of breath, trying to wheeze out the words "Mercy," "Lexi," and "running."

The vast majority of the Raisins alumnae felt their calling was to be an actress/singer/code-word-for-porn-star. Mercedes and Lexus—who were known by some boys as "Masturbades" and "Sexus" (these boys were not clever)—had taken up drama when they gotten their zits, which was when all Raisins girls where forced to turn in their hot pants. And now they were running.

Clyde momentarily tore his eyes from the sight before them to look at Kenny, who'd been frowning and rubbing his stomach.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Indigestion. Spent the morning with Cartman," he said, laughing. Clyde grinned.

"... Mary had a little snack,

"It caused her ass to grow;

"And everything that Mary ate,

"To the thighs it was sure to go. Okay, break!" Craig shouted through the megaphone, braking the golf cart. The actors all collapsed instantaneously, wheezing, clutching their sides, and moaning for sweet sweet death.

"Buncha pansy fatasses," Craig grumbled, climbing out of the cart.

"Hey Craig, why didn't you ever tell us you had M'n'L jogging? We would've come see your rehearsal," Kenny said. Craig looked over at Lexus and Mercedes, whose sweat-soaked chests were heaving, and made a face.

"Really, you guys? _Them?_ I just don't see the appeal. They look so..."

"Gorgeous?" Clyde suggested.

"Fuckable?" Kenny prompted.

"_Young_," Craig concluded. "They look like little girls. I want _women_."

"We all know what _you_ want."

"Craig, Garrison doesn't really qualify as a woman," Clyde said.

"You both are so blind. She's the perfect woman."

"So... your definition of the perfect woman is a dyke who used to be a gay-bashing woman who used to be a gay man who used to be a gay-bashing closet case that had sex with animals and quite probably that hand-puppet." Kenny lifted his eyebrows for dramatic effect. It was pretty much the only facial expression he could use to convey his emotions, what with the hood and all.

"You two disgust me. At this very moment that brave woman is lying in a hospital bed courageously fighting prostate cancer, and all you can do is criticize. She taught us every year we were in grade school, from kindergarten to sixth grade!"

"Garrison never taught us anything," Clyde said. "S/h/it just made us watch old TV shows and memorize a lot of backwards geography. Cartman _still_ thinks France is Britain and Britain is France."

"I owe my love of cop dramas to her," Craig said with a dreamy sigh. Kenny and Clyde exchanged somewhat disturbed looks.

At this point two of the performers managed to scrap themselves off of the floor and walked in two different directions. One, Christophe—who would have preferred to go by the code name Ze Mole but had instead been branded Chris by his American classmates because they thought "Christophe" was a little hard to pronounce—came over to Craig, Kenny, and Clyde.

"This ez insulting," Chris told Craig. "I am in perfect shape. You 'ave to be, to run through a land mine, when at any moment your balls could be blown off, but knowing eet is worth eet for free-"

"Blah blah blah, obscenity, obscenity," Craig mocked Chris, flapping his hand like a mouth.

"Hey, Chris," Clyde greeted him.

"'Ello, assholes, Kenny. Can I get you anything? A soda? Do you want someone killed?"

Kenny heaved a sigh. "Chris, c'mon. How many times do we have to go over this? You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my life. I am indebted to you."

"I didn't save your life, you'd already died!"

"Saved my life," Chris repeated firmly.

"Kenny, tell him to do his dance number," Craig urged. "He's being an asshole about it, but he'll do it if you tell him to."

"Eet ez ridiculous," Chris said, glaring. "I was willing to be Victor Frankenstein when you wanted me to break into a Charnel house and steal bodies, but I. Will. Not. do a pole dance on my shovel."

"But it's the only way you can properly convey the heartbreak of having your wife slain by your creation before you even get to bone her!"

"No."

"Frenchie," Craig mumbled. Chris glared and reached for his shovel.

"Wow, you guys," Clyde said. "Mellax."

(Clyde has a vocabulary that is full of words that he basically made up himself. A few examples:

**mel•lax**, verb

combination of mellow and relax; like chillax, except no one else says it

l**ol•ly-dal•ly**, verb

combination of lollygag and dilly-dally; anything done simply to waste time

**po•e•mo**, noun

emo poetry

**clit•tease**, noun

1 male equivalent of a cocktease

2 Kyle Broflovski

**nor•kie**, noun

(derogatory) someone from North Park

adjective

anything particularly lame or "gay", example: making a dictionary to define the words you make up)

Kenny was still sniggering at Craig's description of Chris' role. "What sort of play _is_ this?"

Craig lit up the way he always does when describing his vision. "Frankenstein tries to create the ultimate dancer. Disco. Ballroom. Breakdance. _All_ of it. But the result is a horrible monstrosity. Blacklisted from all clubs, attacked by street performers, the creature ultimately gets stomped to death by ravers in a mosh pit, but not before riverdancing a few of Frankenstein's loved ones to death."

-

Meanwhile, the other actor who'd regained footing made his way to the two brunettes who were seated on the sidelines. One of them was reading something out loud and the other was on his knees, hands clamped over his ears, banging his head against the grass.

"...my life is like a black sock

"stepped on all day

"everyday

"until I am full of holes

"then discarded

"unwanted

"into a waste basket."

"Hey Stan, Ike," Kyle greeted them.

"Hey man, is running what you do at every rehearsal? No wonder you're so fit."

"KYLE!" Ike launched himself off of the ground and clung to his brother's abdomen. "Can we go now? _Please?_"

"Yes," Kyle said, fed up with Craig.

"Where're you going?" Stan asked, standing up and brushing grass off his ass.

"Sea World," Kyle said. Stan's face lit up.

"Henrietta's working there today! Can I come?"

"No!" Ike gasped.

"Sure," Kyle said.

"Great! I can read you more of my poetry during the car ride, Ike."

"No!" Ike wailed.

"Here's a new one I've been working on." Stan cleared his throat. "My life is sad and lonely/ Like a graveyard at night / And when you go beneath the surface / All you find is dead things and worms eating the dead things / Then crapping them back out as dirt / My soul is worm excrement..."

Ike made a pitiful, whipped noise and went limp. Kyle and Stan had to carry him by his arms and legs to the car.


	3. Saturday Afternoon

This story is going to turn into a mass (6+) crossover soon, but for now it's all South Park.

And I tweaked the story to add Thomas, cause he rocks. But Craig/Garrison is still True Love™. :O

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**o3. Saturday Afternoon**

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Cartman was walking down the street, looking for puppies to kick to cheer himself up and take his mind off of his troubles (chief among them was that his pants felt tighter than they'd been yesterday), when he ran into Wendy, who was clutching a Wendy's bag.

"What are you want?"

"Cartman," she said very solemnly, "there's something I just have to tell you." She smoothed out the fast food bag and showed him the logo, looking dead serious. "You see, I am secretly the Wendy's mascot. I dye my hair and use face cream to conceal my real identity. But I am, and always have been, a ginger."

Cartman's world collapsed in on itself. He clutched his ears, afraid his brain would leak out (or more vile truths would leak in) if he didn't. Was this karmic retribution? God's divine punishment for a lifetime of sins, that he should unwittingly sleep with someone who was not only a hippie, but a ginger as well? Tears sprang to Cartman's eyes. He'd caught it, now. Soon his pubes would turn orange. Castration was the only way to stop it from spreading.

He noticed Wendy was laughing so hard her knees were buckling, and sneered. "You think this is FUNNY?!"

"Duh, I was joking," she said.

"Then... why do you have a Wendy's bag on you?"

"_Duh_, because I just had a Baconator and large fries. I've got the munchies hella bad."

"You're high," Cartman realized. He supposed he should have earlier; when were hippies _not_ high?

Wendy giggled. "You sound so disapproving. What, you're too straight-laced to do drugs?"

Cartman smirked, recalling his hobby as a drug lord. "Pot only does two things: It makes you hungry all the time, and it makes you stupid. I'm _already_ hungry all the time, and I can't afford to be stupid."

"Oh, me _too!_" Wendy said, ignoring the rest of what Cartman had said. "C'mon, lets go to the 8-Ten and get Oreos!"

-

"I'm sad

"Because Ike called my poetry bad

"Sad."

"That's brilliant," Henrietta said.

"I wrote it on the way over here," Stan bragged. "It only took me ten minutes."

They were huddled in a corner of the Moray Eel exhibit of Sea World. Henrietta had skipped out on her shift at the spray-on tattoo booth so that they could sneak away to the one part of the park that was always guaranteed to be empty. It was dark, except for the eerie light from the tanks, and Henrietta felt the lighting, along with the robust anguilliform shapes slithering in and out of holes, was the perfect mix of sensualism and hideousness that all goths strove for.

Stan, who'd been an animal lover from an early age, had thought only one thing when he'd first seen the moray eels: Those are some ugly motherfuckers. It was a small price to pay for a make out/grope session with Henrietta.

"You know what you need?" Henrietta said, stroking his lower back. "A tramp stamp."

"Mmm," Stan said in agreement, because he agreed with all the conditions Henrietta set for him, up to and including proving he was a "real" emo by making out with a guy. "Oh," he said, "I wrote a poem for you, too."

"Let's here it."

Stan cleared his throat, "I would sleep forever

"And slumber through an infinitude of night terrors

"For just one dream of you and I

"My sweetest nightmare."

"That," Henrietta said, "is the most romantic thing I have ever heard."

The make out/grope session intensified, but before it was able to lead to where Stan always prayed it would lead to, an intense beam of light was directed at them.

"The hell?" Henrietta grumbled.

"Park security," the man looming over them said, not moving his flashlight to a less retina-damaging position. "Move along, sirs."

"I'm a girl!" Henrietta snapped.

"Oh, excuse me. Move along, misses."

"I'm a boy!" Stan snapped.

The park cop swung his flashlight so that it was directly on Stan's face and squinted at him. "You trying to sass me, ma'am?"

"I _am_ a boy!" Stan insisted. The next thing he knew, he got a face full of pepper spray."

"AUGGH!"

"You're in violation of mocking park security, miss... I'm going to have to take you to park jail."

-

The whale arena was vacant because it was between shows. Ike sat down on the bleachers and began rummaging through his backpack, and Kyle immediately began to ignore him. Bebe was on the riser by the performing tank, wearing a wet suit and hosing out the buckets used for fish. Kyle climbed the stairs by the side of the tank and waved to get her attention; she looked up, smiled, and made her way over.

"Hey, Kyle, what're you doing here?"

"Chauffeuring," he replied.

"Aw. You didn't come to see me?" she pretended to pout.

"Well, you are the brightest part of my day," he said, recalling the horror it had been so far, with Stan and Ike getting into a slap fight over what to listen to on the radio on the drive over, Nickelback or Mindless Self Indulgence. Bebe smiled, but it fell when she looked over Kyle's shoulder.

"_Hey,_ Babe!" an enthusiastic but far-way voice called.

"Ugh. Your _friend_ is here," Bebe said. Kyle glanced back and saw that Kenny and Clyde were seated in the highest-up seats, eating cotton candy and trying to (in Clyde's case nonchalantly) check Bebe out. Bebe scowled at Kenny's pet name for her.

"They're not really _my_ friends," Kyle said. It was true; Kyle didn't hang out with Kenny anymore, and he'd never really hung out with Clyde. In fact, with the exception of Kyle and Bebe, who were still shackled to Stan and Wendy, respectively, all the South Park students had traded in their circle of friends.

When Craig wasn't hounding his cast members or visiting Garrison in the hospital, he was Thomas' unofficial errand boy, doing his laundry, cleaning his pool, or squeezing his lemonade. Chris stalked Kenny and otherwise kept to himself, performing odd jobs from baby sitting to wire tapping for money. Token, who'd given up fighting stereotypes years ago and become the singer/bass player in a band with that tall goth kid and Red, was also the captain of the football team. Tweek, in a move that shocked everyone, had grown to be the tallest, scrawniest person in high school, and Token was determined to recruit him. While Token was as of yet unsuccessful, he, along with the tall goth who came into Tweeks for coffee frequently, had struck up an easy friendship with Tweek. Pip and Gregory had banded together to form the Anti-British Defamation League. People frequently send them teapots in the mail and chucked fireworks at their houses on the Fourth of July. When Cartman wasn't plotting by himself he spent time with Jimmy and Butters, and sometimes had Kenny provide labor at third world prices. And recently, of course, he'd been enjoying Wendy's company.

And so on.

"So, Kyle," Bebe said. "I'm done with fish duty at three. You want to, I don't know, get something to eat? With me?"

"Oh," Kyle said. "Uh, sorry. I'd love to, but I'm just so busy with the... play? Yeah, the play. Got no time for anything else."

"Oh, okay," Bebe said, he smile adopting a fake equality. Avoiding her eyes, Kyle looked over at Ike, and was shocked to see his younger brother was in the middle of aiming a harpoon.

"IKE! What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

Ike lowering the harpoon and looked over innocently. "I'm trying to get my whaling badge for Jewbilee."

"_What?_ We are going _right now!_" Kyle shouted, more than a little glad for an excuse to leave.

"Aw-aw-_awww_," Ike whined.

-

Clyde had talked Kenny into going to Sea World because he'd hoped the dancing taco was there.

The dancing taco, which Kenny was convinced had been a hallucination of Clyde's, had been a man in a giant taco suit advertising outside the park's Mexican food place. Of course they hadn't seen it, and after a little while of hopefully searching, Clyde had conceded defeat and bought Kenny cotton candy for his trouble.

Kenny knew he ought to be on a bus to Shelbyville by now, but he didn't want to leave without checking out Bebe in her wet suit. He reasoned that as long as Cartman didn't see him, no harm would come from being a few hours late.

"What the hell is up with Kyle?" Clyde mused. "Hot girls are always hitting on him and he never appreciates it."

Kenny shrugged. "He _is_ Jewish."

Clyde sighed a little. He resented Kyle for the ease with which he talked to girls—Clyde was always terrified to do it, not only for his paunch, but for his tendency to slip into his own jargon if he got to comfortable. The result was he either responded in boring one-word answers that turned girls off, or he babbled incoherently, which also turned girls off.

Clyde almost wished he were gay. Then he and Kenny could just screw and he wouldn't be burdened by his virginity anymore.

"Let's go," Kenny said, after Bebe shot a glare at them and resumed washing out the fish buckets. "Fish guts don't do it for me."


End file.
